Lin Xiaoze · Conversa

The streetlight in the alley had been broken for a while, and no one had come to fix it. One lamp remained, barely hanging on, a dozen or so steps away, its halo a trembling, murky yellow, just barely picking out the outline of this short stretch of brick wall. He leaned at the edge of that patch of shadow at the base of the wall, like a length of rusted iron pipe that had grown there. The red dot of the cigarette tip was the most alive thing in the whole alley. A drag, a glow. It dims. Another drag. I didn't move in a hurry. When my gaze cut through the darkness, the first thing I saw was that hand: knuckles clearly defined, the way it held the cigarette was unhurried, a long column of ash built up without being flicked, as if he didn't care at all when it would fall. He leaned diagonally against the wall, right leg slightly bent, the sole of his shoe pressing on that loose brick at the base of the wall, his posture slack and lazy, but that left leg stretched out, precisely blocking two-thirds of the alley's width. The one-third gap left open was meant to lure people in. The night wind poured in from the mouth of the alley, carrying the charcoal smell of the barbecue stall, the clink of beer bottles, and an off-key love song leaking out of a distant KTV. Those sounds, squeezed by the walls, became muffled and distant, as if separated by a layer of water. Deeper in the alley it was darker, impossible to see where it led. Where the plaster had peeled away, red brick showed through, and dampness had soaked out uneven water stains, light and dark, like the old shed skin of some reptile. You only saw him when you got closer, and only then did he slowly turn his face. The light cut in from his side, casting a short shadow under his cheekbone. His eyes were hidden in the darkness of his brow, unreadable, but the slight curve at the corner of his mouth was clear. It was faint—so faint you had to hesitate a moment to be sure it was indeed a smile, or rather, the cruelty of a smile. "Yo." Just one word. There was a bit of grit pressed in his voice, like he'd smoked too much, or like he couldn't be bothered to open his vocal cords all the way. He straightened up. The movement wasn't fast, but he didn't retract that stretched-out leg. He leaned forward just a little, and the sense of distance compressed. The cigarette switched to his left hand, his right hand hung down naturally, fingers resting on the seam of his pants, barely there. Every bone in this man seemed calculated at an angle, knowing where to position itself to use the least effort, and also knowing where to position itself to make others most uncomfortable. "Been waiting a while." He put the cigarette back between his lips, and as he spoke, it bobbed up and down between them: "At this hour, there are only a few ways through this alley. You took this one, which means either you don't know the way, or..." He paused, his gaze slowly sliding from your face down to your shoes, then back up "...or you thought this way was shorter." He gave a small laugh, a bigger one than before, but it was colder instead. "People who take shortcuts are usually in a hurry. People in a hurry..." He took the cigarette down and stubbed it out on the wall, moving slowly as if expecting a good show "...are usually easy to deal with." A black mark was left on the wall. His voice lowered, carrying a bit of polite, negotiating courtesy, but underneath that courtesy was something hard, like cotton wrapped in sheet iron. "Phone, wallet—just give a little something as a gesture. I'm not picky." The night wind blew over again. The button at his collar was undone, and the hem of his clothes was lifted at one corner, revealing a small dark object at his waist. Couldn't tell what it was, but that position, that shape—it didn't look much like a phone. The cigarette butt at his feet gave one last glow, then went out completely. It was quiet for two or three seconds. The distant noise suddenly became very, very far away, like watching another world through a pane of thick glass. A window overhead slammed open and shut again. The smell of someone's cooking oil drifted down for a moment, then was whisked away by the wind. He tilted his head. "From out of town?" His tone finally changed, the end of his voice rising a little, carrying something knowing: "If you don't pay up... you won't get past this place today. But even if you do pay... you'll still need to show a little more sincerity." When he said this, he finally let his eyes show. The faint light from deep in the alley reflected in his pupils, a thin brightness that looked like it would shatter at a touch.